Platinum Cowboy. Rita Herron
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if he’d found something incriminating, and McKade had discovered what he was up to? Would McKade be so ruthless as to get rid of her brother to keep him silent?
Panic threatened, but she tamped it down, tightening her fingers around the steering wheel. If she found out he had, she’d go to the police.
She’d considered it already, but then she’d have to admit that her brother had gone to the Diamondback seeking revenge on McKade. And what if Johnny had done something or planned to do something illegal…?
Her gaze was drawn to the pastureland and the horses galloping in the pens as she neared the Diamondback’s main house. Nerves on edge, she parked in the circular drive in front of the house, noting the nearby corrals and bunkhouse, and inhaled a calming breath as she removed her compact to repair her tearswollen eyes.
She’d wondered if McKade would recognize her name and refuse to hire her because of her father, but she hadn’t dealt with him directly or even met him yet.
He probably didn’t know half the names of the families he’d destroyed.
Money was obviously the only thing that mattered to him.
Well, family was the only thing that mattered to her. Family and her home.
He had already stolen two of those from her.
If he’d hurt Johnny, he’d be sorry.
“THE ARABIANS ARE SAFE and in quarantine now on my ranch,” Flint told Amal Jabar, the Middle Eastern contact who’d arranged for him to import the new breed. “I’m not sure if the attackers wanted to kill my men or steal the horses, but I intend to find out. I’m going to need a list of everyone who works for you, and anyone else who knew about the shipment.”
“You’re suggesting that one of my people sabotaged the plane?” Amal said, with an angry edge to his voice.
Flint was skating on thin ice here: Akeem had referred him to Amal and trusted the man. “I’m not implying anything,” Flint said. “But men died tonight, so we have to investigate every angle.”
Amal hesitated. “I’ll fax you the list. And I’ll also question each one of them myself. If I find anything suspicious, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Amal. I appreciate it.”
“Take good care of the Arabians,” Amal said.
“Don’t worry. I will.”
He hung up, undressed, then climbed in the shower. He closed his eyes as the warm water sluiced over him and the images of the dead men haunted him. Three men had lost their lives on a job for him, which meant their blood was on his hands.
He would find the responsible party if it killed him.
Then the families could have some closure, knowing that the killer had been brought to justice. It was the least he could do for them.
He stumbled from the shower, then dragged on a pair of jeans and a denim shirt, tensing at the sound of the doorbell ringing. The last thing he wanted right now was company.
He wanted to down a stiff drink, to mourn his friend in peace, and to figure out who had attacked his shipment and his men tonight, because they had attacked him.
And what if someone came after the Arabians again?
He’d gotten them settled into the quarantine area for the two weeks necessary to run the veterinary tests required under state and federal law. Maybe he should hire extra security.
A knock sounded at his suite door. “Mr. McKade, you have a guest.”
Hoping it was the police, with answers, he opened the door and found Lucinda, his housekeeper and cook, staring up at him with swollen eyes. She’d worked for Flint for ten years now and felt more like a mother to him than an employee. He’d asked her repeatedly to call him by his first name, but she refused.
And she had been friends with Grover, the older ranch hand who’d died tonight, and had taken the news badly. “Who is it?”
“Dr. Whittaker.”
Oh, hell. He’d forgotten she was supposed to arrive tonight.
“Tell her I’ll be right there.”
Lucinda nodded and descended the stairs. He buttoned his shirt and ran a hand through his still-damp hair. He’d been dreading this meeting for weeks, ever since her father had committed suicide. He’d been shocked when she’d applied for a job as one of his vets and he’d wondered if she had somehow discovered the truth about the deal he’d made with her father.
Maybe she wanted to thank him for bailing out her father before he lost everything they owned. And then for giving her a job…
Not that she couldn’t practice anywhere in the state. He’d read her credentials; she’d graduated top of her class. Besides, she was an Aggie grad as well, and Aggies took care of their own.
He heaved a weary breath and went down the stairs, half expecting her to be short and stubby like her father, a boyish girl who was strong enough to handle the horses.
But his gut clenched when he spotted the woman sitting in his office, in one of his overstuffed leather chairs.
Dear Jesus, she was nothing like her old man.
Not stubby or boyish, but petite, and so delicate looking that the chair nearly swallowed her slight frame. Slight but curvy, he thought as his gaze landed on her full breasts, which were straining against that damn suit jacket.
Long golden hair brushed her shoulders, shimmering beneath the lamplight like finespun silk, and her skirt showcased a pair of killer legs, with firm calves that could grip a horse—or a man—when riding him. His gaze raked south, to her heels, long, spiky things with pointed toes that made a man’s mouth water, made a man imagine having her in bed, wearing nothing but the damn shoes.
She was his new vet?
He swallowed back a knot of hunger that suddenly shot through his body with lightning speed and caught him completely off guard.
She looked up and saw him, then stood, the scent of honey and softness emanating from her. And her cobalt-blue suit was the same rich color as her incredibly big blue eyes.
Eyes that turned icy cold when he extended his hand.
His shoulders stiffened. She obviously hadn’t come here to thank him for saving her father’s ass.
In fact, judging from her pursed mouth and the brusque handshake she offered, she didn’t like him at all.
So why in the hell had she accepted the job on his ranch?
Lora Leigh’s chest tightened as Flint McKade’s gigantic palm swallowed hers. She’d seen photographs of him in the newspaper as well as in several magazines—once on the cover, as one of the top ten eligible bachelors in Texas—and had braced herself to remain unaffected by his good looks and his money.
She refused to swoon over a man, especially one who ran roughshod over the working people.
But in spite of her resolve, a sliver of undeniable attraction splintered through her as his dark brown eyes raked over her. He was taller than he looked in his photographs, at least six-two, and had a linebacker’s shoulders and a washboard stomach. She knew that from the charity calendar for which he’d posed shirtless. His skin was bronzed from the sun and his shaggy, dark-brown hair brushed his shoulders like a renegade cowboy.
And surprisingly, his hands were calloused.
So the stories were right: he actually did work on the ranch himself, and did not just delegate and oversee his minions.
“Dr. Whittaker, it’s nice